


What Hurts The Most

by SpiraledIntoThisRabbithole



Series: Kissing A Fool universe [3]
Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, F/M, Music is therapy, One Shot Collection, Singer/Musician Scott, Socialite Tessa, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-10-02 18:07:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiraledIntoThisRabbithole/pseuds/SpiraledIntoThisRabbithole
Summary: Music may be his job, but it’s also always been how Scott expresses himself. He guesses it’s a good thing he has a job that allows him to express his feelings whenever he wants to?Part of my Kissing A Fool universe revolving around Toronto socialite Tessa Virtue and singer/musician Scott Moir. This is another prequel one-shot stand-alone song fic, set only a few weeks after Tessa and Scott broke apart after an unfortunate meeting with her family.





	What Hurts The Most

**Author's Note:**

> I had written most of this story earlier, but after the fandom went into a bit of an emotional turmoil, I decided to pause on this AU for awhile. I’m well aware this ‘verse is way more angsty than my other active fic, The Way You Look Tonight which is currently in a very happy fluffy place.
> 
> To any new readers joining this ‘verse, this a stand-alone fic but I would suggest starting with part 1- Kissing A Fool to get better context of where Scott is in this fic.

Scott knows it’s a bit much. 

The past two weeks or so he’s tried to put on a stoic face and perform all his gigs like nothing has changed. 

Like his heart hasn’t been stomped on and his life hasn’t fallen to pieces. 

He prides himself as being a professional. And being able to perform no matter what. It doesn’t matter what the situation or extenuating circumstances - performing when you’re supposed to do so is part of the job.

But performing all the regular love songs, has been tearing him apart and this morning he woke up feeling like the veneer he’s been putting on has shattered to bits. He just can’t face singing about happiness and sunshine and roses today.

So this evening, his song list has been rather morose. 

Ok, that’s a lie.

It’s been downright fucking depressing!

And he’s certain his tip jar is going to suffer heavily from it, but Scott  _ doesn’t care.  _

No amount of tips can incentivise him into pretending he’s happy-go-lucky Scott today. Ready with a smile to charm the few patrons in the bar who might actually be paying attention to his music (instead of coming here to be seen, or drink very expensive alcohol).

Tonight he wants to  _ wallow _ and it’s as if every single heartbreak song he can think of comes spewing out without much effort. He starts off with Bruno Mars’ Grenade (even through his depression, he knows the range of the song makes it an impressive show/set starter). Scott realises that the lyrics are ridiculously dramatic and exaggerated, but that’s exactly how he feels alright?!

_ I'd catch a grenade for ya  _

_ Throw my head on a blade for ya  _

_ I'd jump in front of a train for ya  _

_ You know I'd do anything for ya  _

_ Oh whoa oh _

_ I would go through all this pain _

_ Take a bullet straight through my brain _

_ Yes I would die for your baby _

_ But you won’t do the same _

When he warbles out these verses, Scott realises there is a bitter edge to the words that he’s unable to smoothen out. There is a sharpness that remains every time he has to repeat them, and he wonders if anyone in the audience can hear it. 

Then he remembers he doesn’t care. 

Most everyone has been heartbroken before. Some might even be heartbroken like him now. So someone in the audience must appreciate it.

He then goes old school, quickly cycling through the Bee Gees’ How Do You Mend A Broken Heart, then ABBA’s The Winner Takes It All, Smokey Robinson’s Track of My Tears, and Prince/Sinead O'Connor's Nothing Compares 2 U...

Scott knows exactly why he woke up in such a bad mood this morning. It’s because last night he happened to catch a glimpse of Tessa on the evening news, which he had left on while he was microwaving his dinner (he hadn’t much energy to cook these days, and all his favourite takeaway places just remind him of Tessa). Whilst waiting for the sports-related news to come on, there had been a little report about a local high society gala dinner to support some worthy cause. Scott hadn’t been paying much attention until he happened to spot Tessa in the background. 

She was heavily made up. Dressed to the nines. And laughing at something some smarmy guy was saying next to her.

So guess whose sleep last night had been plagued with extra tormented thoughts and memories?

Without thinking much about it, his fingers start playing the introductory notes of Sam Smith’s Like I Can. And Scott throws himself into lamenting about all these different types of men Tessa could be with now or in the future. 

_ Why are you looking down all the wrong roads _

_ When mine is the heart and the soul of the song _

_ There may be lovers who hold out their hands but _

_ He’ll never love you like I can, can, can _

Every time he repeats the line  _ He’ll never love you like I can, can, can  _ that ends almost all the verses of the song, Scott thinks about what it’ll be like to find out that Tessa has actually moved on and started dating someone else. Some guy who fits all the requirements she’s clearly looking for in her life. 

And he swears he finally understands why Sam Smith always sounds like he’s drowning in a pool of angst. His lyrics are raw and emotional, full of soul and heartbreak. And they echo every fleeting thought and feeling Scott has lurking in his breaking heart.

It’s also why Scott has actively try to avoid listening to any of his or Adele’s music since the breakup. Gosh Adele! Thankfully, he’s been able to resist the lure of falling into an Adele playlist down spiral. Songs like Someone Like You would probably leave him drunk out of his mind and curled up in a fetal position on his bed. 

But apparently in the dismal and lonely mood he’s in tonight, his subconscious has decided he should have free reign to use these songs to express his sorrow and heartbreak!

He should thank his lucky stars he’s playing in one of Patch’s bars this evening. If there are any complaints about that bleak and gloomy singer depressing the audience tonight, at least he knows he’ll have Patch’s support and won’t have to worry about getting fired. 

Patch is aware Scott’s just gone through a breakup - even though Scott had subscribed to Tessa’s  _ it’s only the two of us _ world view during their short relationship. 

What a fucking idiot he was! 

He should have realised that she was embarrassed by him and hiding his existence from the world. Instead he thought it was romantic to  _ keep things private _ and  _ just between them for now _ . After all, when you are in the throes of new romance, who would want to get embroiled in all the niceties of meeting friends and family! 

Scott now cringes at his stupidity. At how he missed all the obvious signs! 

Probably the only consolation he can take comfort in is that Tessa wasn’t married and hiding him as the other man. He doesn’t think his battered heart could survive that added blow. 

The truth is, while some of his friends and family knew he was dating this great girl, Tessa or T… they didn’t know much details else. Patch however belonged to both Tessa and Scott’s worlds and had actually once seen the couple out together for lunch. It wasn’t obvious it was a date, but Scott always wondered if Patch suspected her identity then. 

In his experience, Patch’s placid but sharp eyes tended to not miss much. It’s what makes him an excellent businessman. He’s always known when someone is bullshitting him, even if he never expresses his thoughts on his face.

Nonetheless Patch’s discretion on all matters could also always be depended on. Except for the fact that he was a hundred percent devoted to his wife, Marie-France, and probably shares everything he knows with her. And that’s how Scott knows the older couple are likely the only people who have a sense of how absolutely devastated he really is. 

Scott had been keeping the break up pretty well bottled up within himself. Even his mother hadn’t sniffed it out. But that’s probably because he’s been avoiding her calls and replying with texts instead. Pretending he’s been swamped with work. 

Of course, the fact that he’s avoided a few calls from his mother, means Alma Moir definitely suspects something’s wrong. She just probably doesn’t know what yet. Scott gives it another week max before she’ll probably deploy one of his brothers on an “impromptu” errand to Toronto to check up on him.

They won’t find much though. His apartment looks exactly the same as when they visited last fall. No one even knew he had practically been living with Tessa for most of the last three months. And that packing up his stuff from her apartment that night and returning to his place had almost killed him.

He had hurried through the process. Instinctively knowing that he would break into pieces if he paused to think. If he let himself recall what just happened Tessa and her family. 

He had fallen apart though once he returned to his empty apartment, and realised he would never again find her curled up in his little armchair with a book and a mug of tea in hand. Waiting for him to return home after a late gig.

The only visible clue of Scott’s inner turmoil is probably Scott himself. He knows he hasn’t been eating much so he’s probably lost weight. He was also perhaps drinking more than he should. But never too much that he couldn’t perform the next day. When you spend months, almost years trying to put food on the table and pay the rent, you don’t screw up your basic livelihood. 

But there was that one night when he knew he didn’t have a job the next day. And Scott finally felt like he could pack up Tessa’s remaining belongings in his flat and have it delivered to the concierge of her apartment building. Scott may have gone straight to Molly Bloom’s for a drink or two or six right after. 

Frankly, he drank himself into a stupor and the bartender had to call Patch to come collect him. 

Scott’s not sure what he babbled out that night as he was dragged into the spare room of the Lauzon-Dubreuil household. But the next morning, an extremely motherly Marie-France fed him blueberry pancakes, ruffled his disheveled hair, and told Billie Rose to give him a big hug (which all did make Scott feel marginally better about there being people out there who loved him).

After she packed her daughter off onto the school bus, Marie-France came to sit quietly next to Scott as he slowly and silently plowed through the pancakes in an attempt to soak up all the alcohol from the night before. Then she patted him on the leg, and quietly told him time would heal his wounds. However in the meantime, it was ok to wallow if necessary and go through the stages of grief. They were cheesy platitudes, but they sounded  _ really _ wise coming out of Marie-France.

Scott was not in the mood to go through some kind of counselling session with her though and listen to all her sensible and rational advice. So he had quickly made his escape from her breakfast counter with the lame excuse of having to do his laundry for the week.

Now, a week on in this upmarket luxurious bar in the middle of a job, Scott finds himself unexpectedly embracing Marie-France’s advice. Relishing this sudden indulgent music therapy session of his. 

He’s singing and playing whatever the hell he wants. He’s ad libbing and changing the melodies up whenever it feels right. Truthfully, he’s so used to performing for a job, for the audience, for the tips… that he’s enjoying performing solely for himself tonight. Expressing himself fully without a care for what an audience might think.

The waitress comes by with a glass of water. She’s fairly new and has always been very solicitous to Scott’s possible needs. Keeping him well-hydrated during his sets. Scott thanks her automatically but barely notices her sympathetic and slightly flirtatious smile. 

He slams the water back like a tequila shot and turns back to the baby grand to start another song.

  
  


_ I can take the rain on the roof of this empty house _

_ That don't bother me _

_ I can take a few tears now and then and just let 'em out _

_ I'm not afraid to cry every once in a while _

_ Even though goin' on with you gone still upsets me _

_ There are days every now and again I pretend I'm okay _

_ But that's not what gets me _

_ What hurts the most was being so close _

_ And having so much to say _

_ And watching you walk away _

_ And never knowing what could've been _

_ And not seeing that loving you _

_ Is what I was trying to do _

  
  


God it  _ hurts _ . 

It hurts so freaking much everyday to know that Tessa was gone and that Scott would never get to know what their future could be like together.

Three months is nothing in the span of someone’s life. 

It’s a semester in school. Or the length on a summer holiday. And Scott has survived and enjoyed many school semesters and summer holidays in his lifetime. 

Yet he knows deep within himself, that his three months with Tessa has changed his life irrevocably. 

Something fundamental has shifted inside him forever.

And he'll never be able to wander carefree through life the same way he did before.

In his short time with Tessa, Scott for the first time really started thinking about the future. The nature of his job had usually kept him thinking in the short-term. For example, worrying about whether he had enough saved away for six months emergency rent or to replace his old car when it finally breaks down and refuses to be revived any longer.

Being with Tessa however, brought about thoughts of a white dress and tuxedo. Of children with dark hair running about singing at the top of their lungs while pirouetting around the floor. Of being lucky enough to wake up to gorgeous, green eyes every damn day of his life.

Within that first month, Scott had started squirreling money away in another savings account just titled ‘T’. He never dwelled too long on exactly what it was for. Maybe he conned himself into thinking it was just for simple things, such as her birthday, or their anniversary, or whatever else a new boyfriend wanted to shower onto his love.

But deep inside, Scott knew it was for the future. 

It was for a ring, a wedding, a house, a college fund. 

Everything he wanted for her and  _ their _ future together.

  
  


_ It's hard to deal with the pain of losing you everywhere I go _

_ But I'm doing it _

_ It's hard to force that smile when I see our old friends and I'm alone _

_ Still harder getting up, getting dressed, living with this regret _

_ But I know if I could do it over _

_ I would trade, give away all the words that I saved in my heart _

_ That I left unspoken _

_ What hurts the most was being so close _

_ And having so much to say _

_ And watching you walk away _

_ And never knowing what could've been _

_ And not seeing that loving you _

_ Is what I was trying to do, oh _

_ What hurts the most was being so close _

_ And having so much to say _

_ And watching you walk away _

_ And never knowing what could've been _

_ And not seeing that loving you _

_ Is what I was trying to do _

_ That's what I was trying to do, ooh _

As Scott sings the last trailing notes of the tune, he thinks grimly to himself that country songs really do know how to aim straight for the gut. He suddenly feels  _ awful.  _ Like he’s gotten into the ring with a 200lbs heavyweight champion, and while he’d managed to drag himself out, he was battered, bruised and utterly exhausted.

He checks his watch and thankfully his session is officially over. Saying a quick thank you and farewell to the crowd, Scott grabs his tips (which seem surprisingly substantial) and steps away from the piano, pulling off his grey tie with a rather violent tug. He usually wears a full suit when playing somewhere upmarket like this. But as his set had continued, it got looser and looser, until now it’s barely hanging off his neck. Hovering somewhere around somewhat presentable but about to tip over into complete disrepute.

He takes in a deep breath as he walks off the stage and heads through the crowd towards the back area where he keeps his belongings. Typically after a set, he’ll go make his rounds talking to the audience and some of the regulars. He’ll also indulge in a proper drink since he won't have to worry about actual hydration and his pitching anymore. 

But today, Scott isn’t in the mood. Even though the bartender has already sent over the waitress with his standard gin and tonic.

“No thanks, Melissa. I don’t think I’m really in the mood tonight.” He gives her a big forced smile, which probably looks wane. Scott  _ is _ trying, but that last song really did hurt the most. He’s still ruminating about how loving Tessa, and then watching her walk away from him with her family, had brought his world down around him. 

“Oh it isn’t from the bar… it’s from that gentleman over there.” Melissa gives him a perky grin and a squeeze on his bicep, before pointing towards a middle-aged man sitting at one of the nice, private corner booths. 

_ Damn it!  _ Now Scott had to be polite and sociable. He can’t slink off to the backroom and then his apartment to continue licking his wounds. 

Steeling his resolve and plastering on another smile, Scott makes his way to the man.

“Hi, I’m Scott. Thanks for the drink. I hope you enjoyed the music?”

“Yes, I did actually. I enjoyed it very much. By the way, I’m Kurt Browning. An old friend of Patch, and I was wondering if you would like to join me for awhile?”

Scott has to hide his grimace. But Alma Moir raised him right, and so he replies in the affirmative and takes a seat. He hopes this Kurt isn’t the chatty type who wants to talk the night away.

“So Kurt, what brings you to Toronto?”

“A bit of work, a bit of leisure… I’m usually based in Alberta, but I had to come up to Toronto and thought to drop by and see if I could catch up with Patch.”

“Were you able to?” Scott asks curiously. He had been in such a melancholic mood that he hadn’t paid any attention to the crowd. Let alone noticed whether Patch had been around this evening.

“Yes, we were able to have a little chat before he has to solve some crisis in another room.” Kurt chuckles. “Actually we spoke quite a bit about you tonight…”

Oh god, he really hopes Kurt isn’t one of those weirdos… the man looks rather nice (he has kind eyes, as Alma would say), but one meets all kinds in this line of work. Scott is still traumatised from when that ‘nice’ couple (they were like his parents’ age!) tried to pick him up for a threesome. He’s also slightly scarred from that time a cougar asked if he’s ever been lucky enough to enjoy the skills and experience of an older woman, and then as he stood there stuttering for a reply, started quizzing him about his masturbatory habits! 

Scott puts on a polite inquiring look, all the while praying he won’t have to rebuff or insult one of Patch’s friends.

The next words he hears floors him though. 

“I understand you don’t have representation or a record deal. I work with Capitol Records,” Kurt states rather matter-of-factly, “and I would love to sign you.” 

Scott’s been sleeping so little the past few weeks, that for a split second he wonders if he’s hallucinating. Sleep deprivation and heartache can definitely wreak havoc on one’s system. 

But Kurt passes him his name card. And the heavy card stock with embossed lettering and matte finish, feels solid underneath his fingers.

Plus he’s certain he’s heard Patch and Marie mention Kurt before. For instance, Marie had let slip that Patch had a good record producer friend he once invited over to the bar to listen to Scott. Given he had no idea this had happened, clearly Scott hadn’t impressed him then. So why are they suddenly having this surreal conversation  _ now? _

Kurt must have noticed the flicker of disbelief because he elaborates. “Actually I saw you perform a few years ago. I think Patch mentioned you had just moved to Toronto and was finding your feet. Personally, I enjoyed you back then as well. I thought you had truckloads of potential but was  _ very _ green. I remember telling Patch you definitely had talent but needed a bit more experience. Also truthfully, the market was going in a completely different direction, and you didn’t quite fit the mold.” 

Kurt shrugs as he watched Scott absorb his words. “I thought about asking if you would be interested in the boyband we were planning to form. But my gut told me you were a front man, a soloist, a musician, and definitely not the type who would have been interested in auditioning for our group. Which was a pity, because you definitely have the boyish good looks. And with your skills in performing, I probably could have sold you as the charming lead singer.”

For a moment, Scott feels a pang of annoyance that he didn’t even get to know this possibility had existed, and that an offer had potentially been in the wings for him. He had taken the “rejection” of the mysterious record producer pretty hard then, and in his determination to get better, subsequently threw himself at every gig that came his way.

However, looking back now, Scott’s happy he didn’t have to make that choice. He probably would have leaped at the chance to be signed (even if it was not as a solo artist with his own music), but he’s not quite sure he would have liked that path.

As if to reaffirm his thoughts, Kurt adds, “In any case, it didn’t make a difference. Because the band fell apart before we even finished recording the album. And then the trend of boy bands started to die again…”

“So why now?” Scott says quietly. “What exactly are you interested in with me?”

Scott doesn’t know why he isn’t jumping for joy. He just got offered a record deal and should be bouncing on the ceiling. Rushing to accept the offer before the nice man takes it away. After all, most artists can only dream about such an opportunity. But the melancholy has lingered despite the thrilling offer. And self-doubt is creeping into his every thought.

“Because you have incredible talent, you’ve gotten way better than I remember, and every song you just sang is laced with immense emotion.” Kurt replies with a small smile. “I was moved by every song in your set. And I’m not easily moved.”

He claps Scott on the back, and for a fleeting moment, Scott is reminded of his older brothers, or of Patch. There’s a sense of commiseration and understanding that does not seem condescending. And Scott realises that he likes Kurt. There’s an almost avuncular aspect in the way he treats Scott, that Scott immediately trusts. 

“That last song in particular... even I felt the hurt. I’ve been happily married for over twenty years. But it brought me back to some dark times in my youth. Times I’ve almost completely forgotten over all these years.” Kurt pauses to swirl the ice in his glass of whiskey. “I’m assuming you just went through a tough break-up?”

Scott has to snort. “You mean my set-list didn’t make that explicit? I’ve never indulged myself like that before in a gig. But it did feel cathartic in some ways.”

Kurt nods in sympathy. 

And the two men sit there sipping more of their drinks. 

“By the way, I hear from Patch you write your own songs?”

Scott has to raise his eyebrows. Just how much has Kurt and Patch talked about him earlier?

“I do. I’m not sure how good they all are so I don’t usually perform them. Plus, at most of my gigs and in places like this, it’s the wrong type of audience to try new songs.”

Kurt smiles. 

“Why don’t you come down to our studio next week? Whenever you’re free. Bring any demos you might have. Play whatever songs you want. And we’ll see how things go? See whether you might like to work with us?”

For the first time in weeks, Scott no longer feels like he’s about to drown in quicksand. He’s learned that the more you struggle, the quicker you get sucked in. And so he had been resigned to sinking slowly into an impenetrable swamp of pain and grief. 

But music has always been his respite. And the prospect of collaborating with other musicians and people in the industry in this new manner, sends a little anticipatory shiver down his spine. 

Maybe this is the lifeline he needs to turn to. Now that loving Tessa is no longer on the cards for him. 

*****

**Author's Note:**

> I’m sorry again. I do think I tried to de-angst it! A lot. It sorta ended on a happier note for Scott? *sheepish grin*
> 
> For info, song lyrics which appear in this fic include Bruno Mars’ Grenade, Sam Smith’s Like I Can, and finally Rascal Flatt’s What Hurts The Most. 
> 
> I had to give Scott a country song at some time… and I don’t really know a lot given I’m from a tropical country far, far away from Canada. My knowledge lies in country pop and country rock that has travelled further across the globe to where I might hear it. And anything from Tim McGraw and Faith Hill because I think they are couple goals and I secretly would love to write a VM fic based on them… but again I don’t know enough about country music to pull that off.


End file.
